𝐓𝐨𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐨𝐟 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡

𝟑𝟐 | 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫-𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐤𝐞

"That should be enough," I said, tossing the last gun into the second bag, filling it completely.

My father's armory has not changed at all since my last visit. Maybe just the red lights shining in the cold room seemed redder to me. The weapons on the shelves were covered in dust which was a sign that my father didn't go here often – he hid his favorite gems from the collection at home. And just in case, he still carried a few with him.

"Two bags?" Otto said doubtfully. "Isn't that a lot?"

"A lot, a little – we don't know who we're fighting. Nothing will happen if we have more," I remarked, trying to ignore the light buzzing above my head. That sound was making me freaking anxious. "We should go now," I said as I threw one bag over my shoulder.

"Wait." Otto stopped himself and pointed to the other door. "What's there?"

"Nothing," I said hastily, allowing him to guess that I was lying. I knew the room behind the door well.

Otto frowned and pulled on the handle.

"Wow," he whistled excitedly, "did you want to hide this from me?" My friend's head turned to me, and I saw his eyes widen. "Own shooting range, man." He walked in without permission, and I followed him undesirably.

My father's shooting range was quite well equipped. There were 4 shooting ranges –

two up to 25 meters and two up to 45 meters. It was possible to shoot at paper, metal, and falling targets. On the far left was another entrance to the room with shelves on which cans and glass bottles were placed. Here, my father often went to relax – first, he drank them, and then emptied the tray.

"Can I try shooting? Pleaseee," Otto begged, looking like a puppy waiting for its treat.

I let some cold air into my dry mouth, not saying anything at all, but even that was enough for Otto to reach into his bag and choose a Beretta 29 with a caliber of 9 millimeters.

"What about this one?" he asked, awaiting my opinion.

"I guess," I shrugged, handing him the headphones. "For your cute ears," I smirked and pressed the button that fired a paper target at the end of one of the firing lanes. As I was pulling my bag from my shoulder, I heard him mumble: I do have cute ears, indeed.

Otto raised his eyebrow.

"Isn't it too far?"

"For a beginner, maybe," I evaluated, trying not to chuckle. "It's important to find out in which position your heart rate is least affected by the barrel," I said. "It often happens that shooters unknowingly change their target because certain parts of their body move as they breathe." Otto nodded in agreement and began to whimper. "Breathe normally," I warned him, "the more you try to hold your breath, the more your hands will shake." I walked over to him from behind and touched his stiff shoulders. "Stay calm," I said, breathing down his neck. "Try to feel the presence of the target and imagine the bullet passing exactly through the center. Keep your arms perpendicular to the stock. Find a position where your body and muscles will be strong so that your hands don't wobble."

"Okay," Otto nodded, "I think I understand. I got thiiiis."

Because of Otto's loud scream (he screamed like a girl), I had trouble hearing the shot. A friend turned on me in fright and shoved a gun into my hands. I laughed so much, I had almost dropped it.

"Don't laugh," he snorted, "it wasn't bad for a beginner." My uncontrolled laughter was interrupted by Otto's proposition. "If you're such a good shooter, why don't you show me how to do it?"

I immediately fell silent and looked into his brown eyes. No one but my father saw me shoot. Never.

What if I panic and miss? My father's face has appeared in front of me, his lips slowly saying: O'Donnell never misses their target.

And I'm O'Donnell, right? I'll always hit the spot. I have completed these targets many times. I cannot underestimate myself; I can do it. And with these encouraging words, I gripped Otto's Beretta tightly in my hands.

In each shooting range, I set the target and peered into the room with the cans. They were there, perfectly laid out, waiting for me to drill a bullet through them. What a bonus, I said to myself and took a deep breath. My shooting was accurate and fast, as usual. The bullets flew back and forth, and I shot them easily into the black dots in the middle as if they were feathers. Several times I turned dramatically and made a kind of fighting gesture – and only because of Otto, who seemed to be really enjoying the show. Finally, I walked over to the shelves and shot down every can and glass that shattered as soon as the bullet touched it.

"Well?" I waited for my friend's response. He started to applaud passionately.

"THAT WAS FUCKING AMAZING...LIKE WOW!" he screamed in eagerness, throwing up his hands uncontrollably until the opposite of his palm called a moving target, which I immediately shot down.

"Better than Counter-Strike?" I asked with a smile on my face, satisfaction flooding my whole body. After quite some time, I was finally proud of myself.

"Are you crazy? Of course, yes! It was amazing," he said enchanted, "you were amazing."

"Thank you," I accepted his compliment and tossed the weapon to the others. "It's time to go." Otto nodded in agreement and took our load. I looked around, my attention was drawn to the buzzing light, again. "I'm sick of it," I muttered, removing the revolver from its holster, and firing straight into the red.

The whole room plunged into darkness.

Otto screamed again.

"I think this place will need a new light," I stated.

On our way back, we had to shine the light from the mobile phone.